I have lived in the same house since I was born. My dad
moved into our home when he was five. My dad lived out his childhood in my
childhood home. I hold this home close to my heart. This home is where all my
break downs have happened. Where all of my successes have been raged about.
Quimby Ave has seen the many changes my life brought, but this green painted,
bricked house is my figurative and literal foundation. Most of my firsts have
happened in this home. After my first real heartbreak, I couldn’t cry into my
mother’s arms, but I cried into the arms of the couch that have seen
everything. There is not a wall in this house that does not have a picture
hanging on it. My heart and memories reside in this house. They reside in my
yellow room, which my grandfather painted a year before he passed and I can
never change because my emotions will become too sad. They reside in the room
my brother and I shared for four years. This home is my heart.
My other home is my smile. This home has changed slightly,
but it has always stayed on the same street. Salisbury beach, with her long
summer days, as well as her nights. The first vacation I ever took with my
family, the first place I ever got lost, the first place I ever received sad
news, and the only place all my family comes together without a question. I
never have a day that I am not smiling outside the porched house. This home is
in the middle of nowhere. This characteristic has always been my favorite
because I am able to be free. I don’t have commitments, my family and I can
walk or drive for miles and not be disturbed, and I don’t see anyone from my
hometown for weeks and that can be an amazing thing. All of my cousins grew up
here. We grew up playing whiffle ball, football, Frisbee, just about every
activity you can imagine. My favorite memories are here. This is a home that
will never disappear.
Sometimes homes do disappear though. Sometimes they move
on from you before you’re ready to leave. A fast move from a town you grew up
in or a precious object leaving without a trace. Growing up, my dad always
drove a large truck. As a little girl, I knew that was what I wanted my guy to
drive. My lost home is in the passenger
side of a truck that’s not my dad’s. This truck belongs to someone dear to my
heart. The laughs, the late night fights, the crazy sing-a-long snap-chat
stories, those are what I miss most from my lost home. Homes do not always have
to be something that is in your life. Sometimes a home can just be a fleeting
memory. A memory that makes you smile. This home is a vision of me in the
passenger seat of a big, black Ford truck…smiling…forgetting all of my troubles.
That is what a home is supposed to mean to someone.
